Between A Scrunchie and a Hard Place
by Eskimo Jo
Summary: Helen embarks on an odyssey to return Carol's cheap moisturizer, stupid sleep goggles, and especially that fucking scrunchie. [Carol Rance x Helen Basch] Originally published to AO3.
1. Episode 1

It had taken three and a half weeks for Helen Basch to finally open that closet in her smallest, least used guestroom. She wasn't sure why exactly. It could have been the mind-bending weed from her son that had been wreaking havoc on her brain; it could have merely been some sort of boredom mixed with a decent dose of masochism. Whatever it was, she sneered at the plastic bag full of crap, lumped on the floor like a dead, bloated frog, currently occupying her otherwise pristinely organized closet. She yanked it out with more force than was even remotely necessary for the weight of the thing. Cheap moisturizer and a handful of identical scrunchies went flying across the room.

_Scrunchies_. Ugh, really? The 90s were bad enough the first time around. Now they littered her guestroom menacingly, if hair accessories could be considered a threat at all, that is. They were certainly a threat to her sanity.

Pawing through the remaining loot, she pushed aside those goddawful sleep goggles and more tubes of shitty moisturizer with cartoons of fucking polar bears on them. _Snow-Kissed Berry, my ass_, she groaned to herself. Then she found it amidst all of Carol's leftover clothes: her purple bra. She'd mistakenly shoved her own clothes into the pile of shit she wanted excised from her home. No one could blame her really, right? She was in a rage that day (that week). But all was well with the world now because, fuck, she really wanted to wear that bra today and here it was. Too bad the whole room now smelled like Carol.

No, she wouldn't sniff the blouse. And certainly not the panties either. She had more class than that, clearly. Sports bra in hand, she looked down at the pile on the bed. The cheating bitch hadn't even had the balls to show up and get her shit. Or, you know, give her notice like an actual professional.

Instead, after the joyous occasion that was The Box premiere filming—she will never forget Merc's screams—, she returned to the office to find it full of whispers and curious side-long glances. It was easy enough to breeze by Carol's office with an inconspicuous glance in to see that it had been cleared out. So very quickly. Well, it's not like she had much worth taking in the first place. Helen's stride never faltered but the slam of her own office door may have given her away. Just a little bit. Doesn't matter anymore. That was three and a half weeks ago.

Three and a half weeks with this bag of shit sitting in her closet. Three and a half weeks of making Beverly Lincoln's life pure misery. Three and a half weeks of watching Merc squirm at the hands of Matt Leblanc. Three and a half weeks of all her revenges going precisely to plan. Three and a half weeks of an empty office and then a new interim and only mildly useless Head of Programming. Three and a half weeks of a neon pink vibrator instead of a desperate, twitchy strawberry blonde between her legs. And thus, three and a half weeks of barely satisfactory orgasms. So, in total, the bad seemed to be cancelling out the good by a mile. And just a whiff of Carol's perfume was enough to be reminded of that.

With a quick spin on her heel, she tossed the bag aside and slammed the bedroom door behind and left the hurricane to be ignored until Elena came to clean it up.

And shit, she'd left the fucking bra in there. Again.

Fuck it. She'd just buy a new one.


	2. Episode 2

When her housekeeper Elena left Carol's bag of shit outside the guestroom and Helen tripped over it on her way to make coffee in her pretty kitchen with the tectonic islands, she knew it had to go. It could easily just go in the trash. It probably should have gone there three and a half weeks ago. But there was still a lot of anger, and seeing the horrified look on Carol's face really needed to happen. She couldn't let this whole thing drop without that one last kick in the gut. There was that old saying about never kicking a man when he was down but that person had obviously never met Helen Basch. Kicking the daylights out of fallen men (and women) was her specialty. And besides, it still stung. That whole being cheated on thing, especially since it involved the ugly British beanpole.

Carrying the bag into work had been a ceremonious affair. Calling that Brit butch into her office and dumping it onto her lap had just been the icing on the cake.

"What's this?" There was little in Beverly's voice beyond suspicion, but the second octave she reached attempted to hide that with curiosity.

"A present. For your girlfriend."

"She's not—"

"Save it. I told you I _so_ don't care. I'm over it."

"Clearly," Beverly managed to whisper in disbelief with a quirk of her stupid eyebrow. But no one was better at raised eyebrows and pointed stares of death than Helen. She returned the look with no comment for quite some time. Had her husband been present, Beverly likely wouldn't have been quite as smarmy. She made a note to always invite Sean in future to avoid this sort of irritation.

"Anyway," she continued with a low tone of warning. "Tell her when you see her that it's here and I want it gone. If she doesn't come for it in 2 days, I'll throw all of her cheap hand creams and ugly blouses in the dumpster out back where you two had your little dalliances."

"There were no—"

"Right." Helen drew out the word as long as possible. She threw in another unimpressed glare again just for good measure.

After a moment's pause, Beverly suspiciously peeked inside the bag, as if she didn't believe the contents where as she was told. "And you can't tell her yourself?" Oh god, she just sounded so snotty her voice was like nails on a chalkboard and Helen repressed an irritated shudder.

That was the thing. Helen hadn't even tried. Not once. At first she just couldn't stand the thought of having to speak to that lilting, squeaky mouse voice stumbling over simple and pathetic sentences. Then pride took over. Not a single call? Now, that was just rude. The little coward scampered off and couldn't face the music. Nothing screamed 'I'm guilty!' like running away with a tail tucked between the legs. "Obviously," Helen began as if talking to a particularly dimwitted banana. "I am not speaking to Carol."

"So, she hasn't rung you either?" A look of consternation passed over the older woman's face. It was the first genuine expression Helen had seen from the woman in quite some time. "Odd. Because, although I'm sure you won't believe this, I've not heard a peep from her since you fired her." And then that unbearable unctuous tone was back in full force and Helen dug her nails into her own palm to temper her rage.

Helen leaned back in her chair, staring intently at the Limey shrew as she idly chewed the end of her pen. "You're right. I don't believe you." But really, she did. A little tiny bit. There were things that were starting to wriggle out that had her doubting her previously resolute claims. Maybe 'spectacular paranoia' had been a_ slightly_ accurate. "And I didn't fire her. She _quit_." The coward. Fit perfectly with her avoidant personality.

Beverly nodded slowly, almost smirking in distaste. Almost. But even she wouldn't be that stupid. "Well, as much as I would love to indulge your fantasies further, I… can't help you. I don't know where Carol is, I don't know why she's not answering calls." She clapped her hands together with some air of finality or defeat and a mincingly forced smile.

Professional cordiality could only stretch so far and both parties recognized that the end was near. Even with the addition of Tim as showrunner for _The Opposite of Us_, the Brit bitch had realized her position although mired with one misery after the next, was fairly safe within the network. Plus, it was just more fun to keep her dangling around, to taunt and punish whenever running budget numbers became boring. (The budget was so much more interesting when Carol was around, propped up, legs splayed open on her desk as Helen put her hands and mouth to much better use.)

Lust was such an inconvenience, she mused, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. And love was a pain in the fucking ass. She glared at Beverly one last time. It was all her fault with that stupid lesbian haircut, smug sarcasm, and annoying permascowl. "Don't you have a show to write?"

Another fake smile. "Of course," she intoned in that obnoxious accent of hers and carefully placed Carol's bag of shit back on Helen's desk, patting it timidly like a feral cat. Without a word of goodbye, Beverly was gone.

Helen picked her suddenly uncomfortable panties out of her crotch and scowled deeply at that fucking bag of crap that still smelled like Carol.


	3. Episode 3

Tomato sauce simmered on the stovetop as Helen carefully plucked just enough spaghetti for one out of the packet. The snap and sizzle of the ground beef cooking beside her and the _bloop-plop_ of the water boiling sounded so loud in the quiet house. The joint hung limply from her mouth as she worked. God, life really was boring sometimes. She had just become used to a house with someone else in it, someone that hung around and laughed at her jokes (hell, laughed all the time), shared her food and toothpaste, someone that was just starting to come out of her shell when she'd been spooked—Wait! No. Not spooked. Chickened out more like, right? Helen had never meant to scare her. She really did believe that Carol was on the same page. That was probably the problem with a people pleaser who lies for a living; you can't really believe what they say. '_Oh yeah! I'm totally fine!_' never meant that. In retrospect, that should have been more obvious.

The phone rang shrilly against the symphony of culinary delights. The reprieve was most welcome. Glancing at the caller ID, she smiled and placed the joint in the ash tray for the time being.

"Hello, sweetie," she trilled. "What's up?"

The voice on the other end sounded almost as stoned. "Hey, Mom. Just seeing what's going on."

Helen debated relaying the whole debacle again. Last time she'd spoken to Robbie there was a lot of vague bitching and complaining. The time before that had been a lot of grinning like an idiot and talking about this wonderful new woman in her life. Maybe she should give him the details. But maybe it was best if she didn't. After all, he may have an entirely different perspective that didn't mesh with hers and disagreement wasn't what she wanted to hear.

She told him anyway.

Perhaps it hadn't been the best idea. Sons were supposed to take their mother's side, weren't they? Instead most of his part of the conversation had been, "Oh no, Mom, you didn't." And laughter as if he thought the whole thing was a plot from a shitty comedy program. He seemed completely oblivious to her distress and more than once thought she was blowing things out of proportion. Ungrateful little shit.

"I birthed you for 11 hours, you know. Tore my vagina in half." She took another drag and grinned.

"Mom!" His whiny voice was always a sign she was winning. She chuckled at his discomfort.

"What can I say? You owe me."

He laughed then. "I thought that's why I gave you all the free weed. Must be close to even stevens by now." He paused then, mulling something over in his head. "Seriously though, Mom. Like, you don't think you're being a _little_ crazy about this chick?"

"Robbie," she groaned. Another long toke until she sputtered it out with a cough. She wanted to tell him he'd understand when he was older... but he was 26 now. That was probably old enough.

"What? You don't think it's even remotely possible she wasn't doing what you said and you just scared the shit outta her?"

Helen detested this idea that she could be frightening in her personal relationships. At work, yeah, sure, fine. That was good. But in her home? In her bedroom? That just didn't seem right. And if she detested something (especially something like that) she vetoed it outright. "Nope."

"Oh, come on. I know you better than Dad, maybe even better than Jules. You're fucking scary."

Scoffing loudly, Helen grimaced then remembered he couldn't actually see her face. "I am not!"

She wished she could see his face too. He'd have that incredulous raised eyebrow he inherited from her plastered on his face. "Yeah, you are. Remember that time you found me down at the beach with Mackenzie Williams? You, like, you went psycho outta nowhere and didn't let it go for a year."

"You were 12 and smoking dope. Who wouldn't?" She remembered it like yesterday.

"I was 17 actually and now I grow dope and give it to you." Okay, maybe not like yesterday. "This Carol chick sounds pretty cool and you sound like _you_. So, like, maybe chill out a bit. I give you the good stuff for that exact purpose."

Boys could be so purposefully dense when they chose to be. Her son was no exception to the rule. He had been a handful growing up for that reason. So much feigned innocence and ignorance. It was incredibly difficult to discipline a child who just pretended he had no idea what was going on. Ever. "Honey, she—she _lied_. It was totally humiliating. How is sneaking around behind my back 'pretty cool' these days?"

There was a long pause. "Yeah." The word was long and drawn out as if she made a good point, but the slight lilt at the end meant a big giant 'but' was coming up. "But, dude, you're _you_!"

"_Dude_?"

"Mom." He attempted to flail around to rectify the situation.

"_Dude_?" she tried again.

"You know what I mean! I basically spent from the age of 8 to the age of 23 lying straight up to you about everything cuz you are one scary lady and when you think you know something, like, no one can ever tell you any different."

"Different_ly_." She could always rely on correcting his grammar to throw him off course. When there was no immediate response, she grinned. The meat was sizzling faster and louder now as she stirred in the tomato sauce. It smelled divine.

He sighed. Or maybe he was just exhaling a huge hit. "Whatever. Like, yeah, that was shitty of her but man, it took me, like, 23 years to tell you the truth and for you to actually believe me. Cut the chick some slack." He paused again. "I bet you never considered the fact she may not have been cheating on you, huh? You make lots of shit up in your head. Like that time—"

"You are not my son," she said but ended with a slight laugh to cover up her own sense of betrayal.

He echoed her laugh then. And it grew. And grew. And grew until there was a full-on guffaw on the other end of the line. And of course it was contagious. As she laughed alongside him, she could feel tension dripping away. Almost literally. It was an odd feeling after the last couple weeks. This is possibly the reason she had children, she thought.

The laughter began to fade into staccatoed chuckles until nothing was left except that silence. She knew it well. It was the kind of heavy blanket that meant there was more to say but no one was quite willing to break the silence yet. "You weren't like this with Jenn. Or Rosie," he said carefully, as if verbally tiptoeing around a landmine.

She knew what he meant. Insecure. Vulnerable. She hadn't been this insecure and insane with either of them. Jennifer had entered her life slowly and easily, and left it in much the same way. Rosie had been a fling that got stuck on repeat for too many months until she had to pull the plug for both their sakes. She didn't keep a bag of Jennifer's shit in her guestroom for a month afterwards and she didn't spend her days imagining revenge scenarios that would afford her some piece of mind. And Jennifer had cheated. But there had been no lying about it. Just one day she had come out and told Helen what happened the previous night with another coworker from the news, and how she wanted to see where it went. Had it hurt? Sure. But they talked, and talked a bit more, and just sort of drifted off. Like her fucking kitchen islands.

She stubbed the last bit of her roach out in the ashtray. "No, I was not." She also hadn't had a crush on either of them that had been going on for well over two years. She scoffed at herself. A crush. A woman of her age and experience with a stupid little schoolgirl crush, or what felt like one anyway. On a straight woman, no less. Of course, it hadn't started all the way back when Carol had been fucking her ex-husband behind her back, which likely wouldn't have even bothered her then. It had been a few years ago, at the LA Screenings when her chest grew tight as Carol walked over, introducing herself for the 100th time in that obnoxiously fake way she had about her. She'd told her to stop doing that and embarrassed herself by pulling the confused and awkward woman into a surprise embrace. Since that day, that was the greeting instead. And every single time Carol had been taken aback for some reason.

"Exactly."

The pasta seemed done. She grabbed a strainer from the cupboard and flicked off the heat on all the ranges. She said nothing more as she stared at the steam coming from the stainless steel pot.

"Even if this Betsy—"

"Beverly Lincoln."

"Beverly Whatsername is in love with Carol, who gives a fuck? You're _you_. Trust that, huh? You're a pretty cool lady, and if I can say that about my own mom, you've gotta listen." He giggled a bit for no reason. "You really think that if you dumped her ass like that and she didn't go running to Betsy, like, right away she was cheating on you with her? I woulda. You're so paranoid about everything." He laughed again, apparently lost in his own joke. "How much do you blaze anyway?"

All Helen could think about was her stomach grumbling as she mixed in the pasta. Her neck was getting sore from holding the phone with her shoulder and her son was on some sort of mission to piss her off even further. Her lips screwed into an unhappy line.

And yet his voice did not cease. "If you love her so much, maybe you should try apologizing or something."

"Don't be ridiculous." She couldn't decide which part was ridiculous: the idea she loved Carol or the idea she had anything to apologise for. Both. Yes, both were equally asinine. She barely knew the woman and it's not like she was the one running around behind Carol's back making dates with other women.

"Okay, Mom," he groaned in that idiotic way of his that implied she was the one being a moron in this conversation. "You do your thing but don't tell me I didn't warn you."

Wow, the pasta looked really delicious sitting there on the plate. "Note taken, Robbie. Don't you have homework to do or something?"

"I graduated 3 years ago." She could practically hear his shit-eating grin.

"Right."

He laughed then. "You have food there, don't you?" She wondered momentarily if he could hear her salivary glands sploshing about through the phone.

"I do, actually. And I'd really like to get to it if you don't mind laying off the love life advice." She considered the fact she may actually be drooling.

"No prob. Take it or not, not my business but just don't try calling Jules for a different take. She's gonna agree with me." When Helen made no verbal response, he sighed. "Take care, Mom. _Relax_. I'll bring you down some Cali indica in a week or so."

She twisted some spaghetti around her fork. "Thanks, honey. Love you, bye," she said quickly and switched off the phone. Fuck, she was hungry.


	4. Episode 4

Carol's Bag of Shit, as it was now officially known, sat beside her in the passenger seat of her Lexus. Of course her Saturday was empty. She had tried a morning hike up in Griffith Park but quickly tired of it when all she passed was joggers and couples; she was neither of those things. Half-expecting Carol or Beverly (or both!) to pop up around each corner added to her fatigue. It was exhausting to constantly be on edge, wanting and dreading the same thing at every turn. Eventually, she'd turned around and marched purposefully back to her car, spinning up dust in her wake as she sped away. Why anyone would do that hike alone was beyond her. Instead she had a plan.

Well, the beginning of a plan. She was going to take that fucking bag of trash and dump it on Carol's doorstep. She hadn't thought ahead any farther. Would she knock? Would she confront the bitch? … Would she just grab her and fuck out all her apologies? Probably not.

Slowing down, Helen looked at her GPS and then the surrounding street. She'd never actually been to Carol's place. A penthouse condo in West Hollywood apparently. She had to wrangle Big Janice from HR to give her the details, citing some sort of outstanding issue regarding a contract. Janice wasn't stupid but she pretended to be. She was however something resembling a modern Amazonian woman, standing at nearly 6'5. She would give Big Janice a big raise at the next budgetary mandate meeting.

When she got to the front lobby, she scrolled through the panel. _Rance, C._ There it was. Call #501. Easy enough. Her finger hovered over the buttons. What would she say? "Come down here and get your crap?" Or, "Hi, it's me. I have a bag of shit for you." Yeah, no. Maybe it would just be easier to leave it with the concierge. Of course, she'd miss the look of sheer terror but that would have been waived anyway with a call. She pressed the call button for him and the responding buzz almost made her jump out of her skin.

Her heels clacked loudly on the granite floor, echoing ominously as she approached the high lacquered desk. A black man of about 30 gave her a once over, twice. "Can I help you, ma'am?" Ugh. She hated that word.

She plopped the bag on the countertop. Another whiff of perfume hit her nostrils. "Yes, I have this for Carol Rance. I'm her—It's her…" she stumbled over how to categorise it. "Stuff."

"Stuff? Like drugs?"

Offended, Helen's brow furrowed and she glared at the man. "No, not like drugs. Do I look like a dealer to you?"

He shrugged, a smirk crinkling his lips. He was fucking with her. Her shoulders sagged and relaxed slightly. "Oh, that was a joke," she said deadpan, thinking about the four large True OG joints sitting deep in her purse.

"It was." He looked her over again and then at the bag which clearly contained clothes and accessories. "You a friend of hers?"

She pursed her lips for a moment. "Yes," she said very carefully, watching his expression shift ever so slightly with the admission. Then he shrugged quickly, and grabbed a memo note pad, scribbling her name and condo unit on it.

"Cool, she doesn't have many of those coming around."

Helen was glad she didn't live in a condo with nosy security guards giving away all her personal secrets.

"Nice to see," he continued without looking up from his logbook. "She's good people, you know what I'm saying? A bit high-strung but couldn't ask for a better face to see in the morning."

"Yeah," Helen agreed, almost suspiciously. And then she was struck with what it had been like to see that face first thing in the morning as well, bed head, morning breath and all. Her heart sputtered a bit in her chest and she frowned again, deep lines carving into her forehead. Her fingers were absently playing with the hem of one of Carol's blouses in the bag. She clenched her fist closed.

He closed the book, and reached for the bag. "She expecting it?"

Shrugging, Helen nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I texted her about it." A bald-faced lie.

"All right. Well, if you see her, let her know I'm missing my lollipops. Haven't seen her in weeks, man."

Curiosity piqued, she couldn't resist. "Lollipops?"

He laughed then, a bit embarrassed it seemed. "Yeah, I'm trying to kick the habit, you know?" He tapped his breast pocket where a few cigarettes were poking out. "Lollipops every morning, right. A bag of 'em. Those big suckers with the chewy shit inside. Gets me through the day." He bit down on a nail before stapling the memo to the bag and putting it aside. "Where she at anyway?"

As far as Helen knew, Carol was supposed to be here. But then keeping tabs on her ex-girlfriend extended only so far as calling up The CW to double-check a suspicion she'd had. Of course that crazy Castor Sotto was talking out of his ass and her stupid, gullible girlfriend had fallen for his bullshit again. Men. She just didn't understand the appeal.

"Around," Helen lied again, forcing a small smile.

The man—Dexter as it said on his name tag—hummed to himself and twisted the pen around his fingers. "Good, good. I mean, I saw her around and she was so happy, then like, 3 weeks ago or something, she came in here totally bummed out. Man, I never seen her so low. Eyes all red and puffy and just like, total mess. Didn't wanna chat. You know anything about that?"

Helen balked a little at the outpouring of information. "I'm sorry, are you two close?" Suddenly this all seemed a little too invasive, especially since more than likely she was the cause of those tears. Maybe he knew something.

He chuckled uncomfortably, scratching at his arm. "Nah, nah. Just worried is all. Like I said, she's good people."

It was time for the ice glare. "If I knew, I really don't think it's appropriate to be telling just anybody about Carol's personal life. And I don't think you should be asking." She was sure she could have pried for way more details from this guy if she had played along, been a little coy, a little flirty. Discretion didn't appear to be in his lexicon. But something deeper pulled her away from that and into something else, something angry and protective. "Tread carefully, Dex." She forced a saccharine smile again and tapped the desktop.

He nodded, clearly chastised adequately. With a quick turn, she put on her best executive walk and strode towards the door. It was only as she reached for the handle she remembered something else. The key that was attached to her key-ring with a silly smiley face sticker on it. She remembered receiving that key from a very flustered girlfriend who obviously had no idea what she was doing or why, and in retrospect actually seemed very uncomfortable about it all. But it was some sort of _quid pro quo_ exchange of house keys. She stopped short, turned again, and strode back.

"On second thought," she trilled, jangling her keys at Dexter, "I'll just go check on her place. Keep the bag here."

He nodded again and waved her towards the elevator.


	5. Episode 5

It was a nice little condo, truth be told. Comfy, homey, none of that boring minimalist shit that execs seemed to insist that their living spaces required. It was actually quite the opposite of her office with its blinding white walls and chrome furniture. This place felt like a home. Normal people would probably feel uncomfortable poking around an ex's apartment. Not Helen Basch. She'd rather not analyse why that was the case.

It was sparse in some ways however. A few trinkets and souvenirs from holidays littered the cabinet shelves. A bunch of books, most of which she could never imagine Carol actually reading. A significant collection of TV DVDs. A single birthday card, from her mother Helen noticed as she peeked inside. (Oh yeah, her birthday had been a week ago.) Some shitty magazines. An orchid, of course. And a grand total of four photographs. One looked to be a family portrait from childhood. A mother, father, two boys, one older child and a toddler, and two little girls, a taller brunette and a blonde with her hair in pigtails. How typical. The other photograph was much later in life. The boys were grown into big men with big smiles, the sister wore the same expression as Jules had in her grad portrait—forced and prim, the mother had gained a leathery complexion full of tired lines across her face, and Carol—looking a bit younger than now, but with that characteristic smile. No father. Well, that explained a bit: a middle kid with daddy issues. The other two were just her brothers again. For someone with 1,734 Facebook friends, Helen would have expected a few more photos of those people.

Maybe there were other things to poke into but Helen suddenly felt like the interloper she was. She assumed it was because even despite spending almost a month joined at the hip with Carol, she really had little idea about her as a person with a history. Sure, there was the long list of ex-lovers that were practically a matter of public record by this point. But that kid in the photo? She didn't know that girl at all. She didn't know what happened between the first photo and the second. She wandered into the kitchen, placed her hand on the fridge door then thought better of it. There'd be nothing the contents of Carol's fridge would tell her what she didn't already know. Her girlfriend had made a point of stocking hers more than once.

Then there was the dreaded bedroom. It's not like she expected Carol to actually be there but she still peered around the corner hesitantly. The room, of course, was empty, bed made and everything in its place. She tested the mattress. It was nice enough. She took the time to stare around the room, taking in the area, its vibe, its peace. On top of the dresser were a few more photos in frames. She stood up to look closer and couldn't catch herself before she scowled at the one of Carol and Beverly out on a hike. Stupid fucking lesbian haircut Beverly. Her son's voice suddenly popped into her head warning her to chill out. The other photos were just Carol with various big name celebrities at industry functions. Nothing that interesting. And then some dog, the same one Helen recognized from Carol's office and had never asked about, even after Carol's admission that her mother was allergic. It could have been Carol's, maybe it was someone else's. She wasn't aware of many people who kept framed photographs of other people's dogs in their bedroom.

And then she saw it. On the night table was an overturned photo frame. She carefully turned it face up and for the first time in a month, she felt the twinge of guilt. The scene was familiar. She remembered it exactly. Carol had taken about 300 selfies of them in the span of 5 minutes on Helen's living room couch one afternoon, cheeks pressed together to fit in the frame. This was the only one she got to really look at; all the others Carol had quickly flipped through, jabbering nonstop and giggling with her about the faces they were pulling or how terrible the photos were. When Helen looked at the faces in the frame, she almost didn't recognize herself and the—what was it?—joy? Yeah, joy. Carol of course was stunning and grinning like the happiest girl in the world. And it wasn't those stupid expressions she normally put on at work when she spent the days lying through her teeth. It was genuine, eyes alight and shining. And gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous.

This hurt.

Carol had printed off the damn photo and framed it beside her bed. There was no picture of Beverly on the night stand, nope. Beverly was somewhere over there, sitting on a dusty dresser with some celebs and a dog. Helen felt her lips do a sort of twitch as if internally she was processing some sort of regret, as if she made a mistake. (Maybe she had.)

"_I'm not used to nice… I think I'm just scared_." Carol's voice echoed in her head. _Scared_. She could see Robbie's smirk from 220 miles away, sitting in his house in Fresno, sucking on his bong between mocking looks.

Carol wasn't the only one. Maybe it would best to just admit that finally. Fear made people do stupid things and think stupid things. Helen hated fear and became an expert at replacing it with anger and vengeance and determination. That's why she was so good at her job after all.

But Carol hadn't been a job. She hadn't been a TV show that needed better ratings. She hadn't been the supplementary executive budget. She was the woman that Helen gazed at across Meeting Room #2 at the NAB Show last year when she should have been paying attention to the digital mobile television platforms presentation. She was the woman that Helen purposely took a seat beside at the bar during the B&amp;C primetime TV luncheon 5 months ago when she should have been nursing the wounds of her failed relationship with Jennifer instead. And Carol was the same woman that made butterflies flutter nervously in her belly as she watched her field a hundred and one difficult questions about floundering ratings with intelligence and ease at a network panel. It was no accident that Helen Basch jumped at the chance to take over from that nutjob Sotto.

And then Carol was there standing too close, shoulders touching, open to Helen's advances, then in her bed, in her kitchen twittering nervously the morning after, giggling like a teenager, fucking in the office. Then every night she was back in her arms and in the morning there she was again, hair messed up and warm hands entwined with her own in the twilight of half-wakefulness.

All dreams must end, usually by the cold wind of reality whipping in. She had learnt that Carol was a diligent worker, a people-pleaser, an unflappable go-getter, a deceptive mask of naivety and perkiness that hid an incredibly sharp business mind full of insights and adaptability to circumstance. There was no way the network would be half of what it still was if, behind all those assholes like Merc and Castor Sotto, there hadn't been Carol. That's part of the reason Helen wanted—_needed_—Carol to stay on when she took Castor's job. It's even more the reason she wanted Carol by her side at all the meetings, round tables, and table reads.

She'd also learnt those traits that were so attractive at the job didn't evenly translate into Carol's romantic life. In fact, it seemed the opposite. It shouldn't have been such a surprise that someone who had thought she deserved to be Merc Lapidus's piece on the side _for 5 years_ would have some deep issues with relationships and self-worth. At home she was neurotic, anxious, insecure, and so terribly afraid of any confrontation that she just held everything inside until it exploded out at the most inopportune moments and in the most confusing ways. At least that's how it had become as the relationship progressed. Helen couldn't recall if it had started off as shakily but she didn't think so. This photo didn't seem that way at all. It looked like two people who were content and, well, in love. Or at least in the initial throes of infatuation.

It was too bad.

Helen placed the photo back on the bedside table, propped up instead of face-down. For some reason, it felt like a challenge.

* * *

All successful endeavours began with a good plan. That was the excuse she gave herself for plucking Carol's home phone from the base. (It was nice that some people still felt the necessity of land lines.) It wasn't creepiness. It wasn't obsession. It was merely the first step in the formulation of an adequate plan to return Carol's Bag of Shit to her. After a few unsuccessful attempts to find the call log, she managed to press the right combination of arrows and was greeted with her last 20 calls in chronological order. There were a significant number from "Bev" as Carol had labelled the number. None of them had been answered and we logged only as missed calls. There was one from the network HR office, also had gone unanswered. The oldest ones, from almost three weeks back, were from a San Diego number. Answered and Carol had talked to the other line for a quite lengthy time. The number was labelled "Jaime".

Okay, she was pushing the limits of sanity but she put the number in her phone and did a reverse lookup. As she suspected, _James A. Rance_ came up. With his address to boot. God bless the terrifying internet and life was about to get even more terrifying. Challenge accepted, Carol.

After placing her phone back in her purse, she snatched up the bag of lollipops sitting on the kitchen counter and made her way out of the condo.


	6. Episode 6

_Is this something a normal person would do or am I crazy?_

That was the question that plagued Helen as she drove through East LA, then through Irvine, and about every 3 miles down the I-5 until finally arriving in the Hillcrest neighbourhood of San Diego, an area she couldn't say she was completely unfamiliar with. She considered calling Robbie to assess the situation for her but ultimately decided against the idea, figuring he'd likely once again bask in the opportunity to call her crazy. She certainly didn't need a 26-year-old stoner calling her quest into doubt, not with all the shit she already had filling up her mind. She could hear his response already if she asked her question: "Ha, Mom! That should be the title of your autobiography!"

Jaime Rance had a nice little house on 3rd Avenue, lined with palms and carefully manicured shrubbery. A unity flag rustled quietly on the porch._ Interesting_. She glanced at the Bag of Shit on the seat next to her. It was such a nice roadtrip companion. Quiet, never had to stop to pee, didn't complain about her choice of music or tell her she was insane. Plastic bags full of other people's junk were quite underrated. The problem however was that it couldn't tell her if she should just go knock on the door or not. She couldn't think of any other options and driving all the way here seemed like a poorly thought out plan now. She wasn't even sure what she wanted from all of this. Did she want Carol back? Or did she want to make her cry some more? Both? Neither?

That fucking photograph on Carol's night stand had fucked everything up. It was burned into her retinas and every time she closed her eyes now, it was all she could see. Maybe she was going insane.

Instead of striding up to the house and banging down the door, she sat in her Lexus, tapping her phone between her hands. It was a difficult choice to make considering she had no idea what she wanted the outcome to be. Finally, she scrolled through her contacts to an ex that she hadn't spoken to in years. She pressed call.

* * *

The bar had a decent crowd for a Saturday night with a nice mix of patrons in their 30s and 40s. She was certain she'd been here before, been picked up here before. It was just the kind of unpretentious, low-key place Helen missed in LA. That's not to say they didn't exist, but she rarely had the opportunity to have a night out that didn't involve a director of cable programming or a chairman of some foundation at some swanky restaurant or event hall. The abundance of cosmetic surgery in LA was exchanged for an endless draft beer tap that served local brews. She could get behind that.

Ylva was across from her, sipping a glass of red wine and looking somewhat glassy-eyed and bored. They'd already managed to catch up on the last couple years—well, as much as either was willing to really divulge—and the conversation had lapsed already. There was a reason they'd broken up. Helen knew that look in Ylva's eyes. It was predatory and almost sexy. Almost. And this time it wasn't directed at her. Glancing around Helen followed the Swede's gaze to a group of women at the bar. One was wearing an atrocious faux leopard print blazer with red stilettos. The others weren't so bad. She wondered if maybe she and Ylva could do some sort of double pick-up thing. It might be nice to let off some steam with a one night stand. She hadn't remembered to pack her vibrator for this little roadtrip. In fact, she hadn't packed anything at all. It had been a spur of the moment decision as she left Carol's condo.

Helen pushed her near-empty glass of Chardonnay around the table. For some reason she'd believed that maybe she and Ylva would have more of a connection, the kinda thing that developed out of a shared history. She thought she might be able to pick her brain about the current situation with Carol. That obviously wasn't going to happen and she could have had the same company from Carol's Bag of Shit.

A group of rather attractive young men wandered through the doors, smiling and laughing with each other, swaying inside like they belonged there. Gay guys always made it look so effortless. Bringing up the rear was a familiar face from more than one photograph at Carol's place. Helen tried not to look dumbfounded at her luck. Maybe Jaime hadn't seen photos of her yet; she could gather intel. Ylva yawned loudly across from her, a sullen look on her face.

"Just go then," Helen groaned and waved her off. She didn't have the patience to deal with this woman's passive aggressive bitching. She made a note to delete the contact from her phone to prevent this from happening again. The Swede made a bee line for that group of women she had been eying up.

By the time Helen looked back at Jaime Rance and his boyfriend, they had been joined by two women. Even from behind, Helen knew exactly who the shorter of the two was, especially as she did that little hair flick. Well, there went that plan. She had to come up with something else pretty fucking quickly.

The other woman put her hand in the small of Carol's back and ushered her onto a stool at the bar. Carol pulled her brother down next to her before they all ordered a round. _Pinot grigio_, Helen mouthed as she watched Carol place her order. Just as she expected, a glass of white was placed in front of her ex-girlfriend.

Okay, this was getting a little weird. Helen debated her options. She could either sit here for the remainder of the night, creepily staring at Carol's every move like some sort of serial killer or she could confront the issue head on. And say what? "Hi, I practically broke into your condo, stalked your little brother, and then drove all the way down here to give you back this bag of trivial shit you left at my place, you stupid lying bitch. Oh yeah, by the way, I love you." Shit, where did _that_ come from?

More importantly, she was trying to gauge the relationship Carol had with this other woman. She didn't look particularly happy, but she didn't seem too uncomfortable either. But it was always difficult to tell with Carol. She was such a good liar. The plastic smile that graced her at every business meeting was fully in place.

By Helen's count, it took almost 20 minutes for that other woman in her nice blue blouse with her nice brown hair to wander off towards the washrooms. She watched her hips sway in that irritatingly smug way some women do, like they know they're hot. Carefully draining the rest of her glass, Helen stood, a little more shakily than intended and squirmed out of the booth she had to herself. She knew how to play this game. By the time she approached Carol, Jaime had already caught on and was watching her like a hawk. She couldn't tell if he recognized her or not. Well, he would soon. She slid down on the stool next to her ex-girlfriend. Carol must have assumed it was just her lady friend returning because she didn't even bother to look up from her wine. Jaime shifted a little.

"That seat's taken, sorry," he said, as pleasantly as could be expected.

"It sure is," Helen agreed calmly and Carol's head shot up like someone had screeched obscenities in her ear. Helen figured she'd only seen her eyes that wide once before, and that was the rather unfortunate breakfast meeting-slash-secret-hike debacle. This time however, there was no screaming or yelling, just a blank look of… what was that? Fear? _Really_? Well, that was a little pathetic. She raised her hands in mock surrender. "Hey, just in the area and popped over for a chat." It wasn't a total lie. "No fireworks, I promise."

Carol didn't seem convinced. She was almost twitching. "Okay," she breathed out, her voice wobbling a little. Now that wasn't like L.A. Carol at all. L.A. Carol would have plastered on a ridiculously forced smile and said something like, "Wow, oh my god, okay! Now that is _great _to hear," and then giggle nervously at the end.

"Do you wanna…?" Helen gestured over to the still empty booth she had just vacated.

The blonde pressed her lips together, peeking at the booth and then back at Helen. "Um, no, I'm good here, I think." She glanced over at her brother. "Oh! Jaime, this is Helen." She said the name with some hesitation. "Helen, my brother Jaime."

"Helen," Jaime said, rolling the name on his tongue and scowling like he tasted something unpleasant. Clearly absurd over-politeness didn't run in the family. He extended his hand all the same.

She took it. "Charmed, I'm sure." He narrowed his eyes. This was not going well. And just at the prefect moment, Carol's little friend returned from the world's longest pee. Probably took a dump. She didn't waste a moment pushing in.

"Sorry, you're in my spot." God, even her voice was irritating. Helen cocked her head to the side with a tight smile and squinted. Carol groaned under her breath at the response. Maybe they did know each other a bit better than either thought.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. I was sitting there."

The older woman narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips as if in deep contemplation of this claim. "And this is your _spot_?"

"Yeah, like I said. And that's my drink." She pointed to the martini on the bar.

"This exact spot?" She pretended to be surprised by the news.

Finally catching onto the fact Helen was playing a game, and not a nice one, she looked to Jaime and shrugged. "Yeah. I was—"

"Sitting here. Yeah, I got it. Funny thing is, I'm sitting here now, so that makes it my spot." She pretended to be deep in thought again. "That seems to be the requirement for claiming a bar stool, right?"

Obviously flustered, the tall brunette just blinked at her, trying to formulate a counter argument. "Look, I don't want any tro—"

"Let's just go," Carol broke in, grabbing Helen's upper arm tightly. Helen cocked an eyebrow at the blonde and got a warning look in reply. Well, at least they were sort of communicating now. Carol stood and pulled Helen off the stool with her and towards the booth. As Helen turned to follow, she glared at Carol's companion. "Remember, that's my spot now," she said, pointing to the seat. "I was sitting there," she ended with a dour smirk.

"Enough!" came the call from her right and there was another tug on her wrist.

When they made it to the booth, sitting on opposite sides, Carol leaned over the table. "Oh my god! Are you drunk?!" She didn't sound or look pleased in the least. She was actually closer to pissed off, a welcome reprieve from the usual flustered niceness. "What is _wrong_ with you? And more importantly, what are you even doing here?"

"I have your bag of shit." She didn't think she was drunk but something about seeing Carol again had loosened her lips.

"My what?" Pure confusion.

Helen sighed as if explaining it all was a huge burden. "Your shit. All that crap you left at my house. I told you I didn't want it and yet you never picked it up."

There was a pause in the conversation and they both listened instead to the loud music blaring from speakers somewhere and the din of a hundred drunken patrons. Carol cocked her head to the side, obviously trying to work something out. "Seriously? Seriously!? Oh my god... Let me get this straight: You drove 3 hours, almost a month after dumping me, to deliver my things to me at a bar?" Her voice was still that high-pitched squeak that she used in unfamiliar situations.

"Not _things_. Junk." It was important clarification for Helen to make.

"Not to mention, I don't even want to know how you knew where to find me."

Helen glanced back at the bar where Jaime was diligently watching their exchange like a good brother. "Trust me, tonight was pure chance." At least that was the truth.

Carol's eyes narrowed. "You're crazy. No, like, seriously. Insane. I thought maybe it was just a—a, I don't know, phase or something but no. This is preeetty nutty."

The older woman shrugged nonchalantly.

"I obviously don't want that stuff back. And I didn't want to see you again. Don't you get it?"

Both eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me? You didn't want to see _me_? That's rich."

Carol shook her head, exasperated. "Oh, oh, you made me strip in a public park! And then—and then proceeded to humiliate me in front of all—oh, yes—_all _of my work colleagues and friends because of some crazy jealous bullshit you got into your head about Beverly of all people. Like hell I'd want to see you again!"

It was a bit refreshing to see this side of Carol—the part that should have come out weeks ago. The part that stood up for herself and didn't just go along with people who were trying to hurt her. It was kinda hot. Helen wanted to see more of it and less of the manically unhinged 'We're gonna crash!' version. Anger suited her and Helen couldn't help a small smile from fluttering across her lips.

Carol glared at her across the table. Well, this _was_ fun.

"What?" she snapped, impatiently brushing her hair off of her forehead.

The older woman merely stared calmly at her, brown eyes sparkling. (She knew how infuriating that could be.) "Nothing. _Please_ continue." Sarcasm was a wonderful tool at her disposal.

It was too easy to deflate Carol's bravado and she watched the other woman's expression shift from one of righteous anger, to hesitant indignation, to confusion. Dammit. "You know what? This is crazy. _You're_ crazy." She slapped her palms flat on the sticky table where Ylva had spilled some of her wine earlier. A flash of disgust passed over Carol's face as she slowly pried her hands away. Neither said another word until huffed out a tired sigh.

"Well, I'll just go grab your bag of shit and be on my way." Maybe she was baiting Carol, just a little bit. She knew precisely how irritating it could be to have your anger be ignored or dismissed. She slid out of the booth and paused to look down at her ex-girlfriend. "Just wait here," she murmured just loud enough to be heard over the ambience and walked away. There it was. Reverse psychology. _Wow, Helen, you are on your game tonight_. She hid her smug smirk as she strode breezily towards the exit.

As she reached the sidewalk outside, there was the familiar sound of footsteps rushing up behind her. "Oh no! No, you don't get to pull this with me." Carol certainly sounded annoyed, and maybe a little hurt as well. "Goddammit, Helen!"

Helen kept walking in the direction of her car.

Not one to be deterred quite so easily, Carol kept up her quick pace behind her. That's how it always was, wasn't it? She in the lead, certain of her direction and destination, and Carol desperately trying to catch up, unsure where they were, and never quite making it. What an unfortunate parallel. Oh well, the Lexus wasn't far now. When she rounded the corner and saw the car, she skid to a stop suddenly, swinging around to face Carol who came up close to her.

"Look, I get it," she started slowly, trying to keep her voice even while studying the blonde's reaction. "You were scared by the intensity. But that's me. I'm an intense person. I do things intensely or not at all. That's not a secret." She sighed, finally letting the flippancy fall as she ran a tired hand through her hair. "But that's not an excuse to lie to me over and over and _over_, to play me like I'm one of your married boss boyfriends."

The look on Carol's face clearly signalled how unfair she thought that assessment was. And maybe it was a little bit but it was also the truth. "I didn't—"

"You did. Your job is lying for money, but I—_we_ weren't supposed to be a job. You didn't have to lie to me. Or keep things from me until they exploded. Do you know how much it humiliated me? Of course I wanted to hurt you back. Yeah, my fault too for letting my paranoia get the better of me but lying about it instead of standing up for yourself didn't help anything." She felt like she could go on all night, standing around on a San Diego street corner chastising her ex, spilling out all her feelings finally. She sighed. It was a much sadder sound that she expected. "All I asked for was honesty. It may not have seemed like it but you could have talked to me about anything_. Anything_. We're supposed to be grown-ups in this thing together, but most of the time I felt like I was doing all the pulling and you were just digging your heels in for the sake of it, 'cause you didn't know any differently, 'cause you—you are used to assholes ignoring your feelings." She paused briefly. "Let me know if I'm getting anything wrong here."

Carol took a step back, a sure sign that something was hitting too close to home. "You were going way too fast. Waaaay too fast." She winced. "Like I told Beverly, it was everything I _dreamed_ about but for some reason when I got it, it was too much. Just like, woah, Nelly, you know?"

"And that's the problem: You told Beverly everything and me nothing."

"You're too much! I couldn't—you—Ugh! How was I supposed to talk to you? You're dialled up to 11 on a good day. It's like dodging landmines talking to you. And then you flipped out and made me feel like shit when I did tell you things." She almost looked as if she was going to cry. "I told you I was scared."

"And I told you I never wanted to scare you."

"But you did! I needed to go slowly and you blamed Beverly being in love with me instead and went on some sort of rampage. How does that make any sense whatsoever? She wasn't the problem."

Helen nodded and stared down at the pavement for a moment. That photo on Carol's nightstand jumped into her memory again. She wasn't the only one at fault here. "Yeah, I know. It was us. We were the problem." Carol had no reply to that right away. For the first time in a month, Helen felt as if she could breathe easier. The truth had a way of doing that. She turned slowly and finished the walk to her car, beeping the remote and opening the passenger door. Carol's Bag of Shit sat on the seat, almost gloating at her now. The click clack of heels followed her down the quiet side street as she reached in for it.

The bag was clenched in her fists as the younger woman approached her again. "Remember when you told me you were scared? How I backed off?"

"After a tantrum," Carol reminded her.

"Okay, after a tantrum. If you just… If you had just told me your problems instead of running to Beverly constantly, maybe I wouldn't have got the wrong idea. Hmm?"

The exasperation was clear on Carol's face and she practically stomped her foot like a petulant child. "She's my best friend. I'm not gonna just not tell her things or stop hanging out with her 'cause you have weird issues about it."

This conversation appeared to be going nowhere fast. "Why couldn't you just say that then? Why did you have to lie and hide it from me like it was some sort of dirty secret? Forgive me for getting the wrong idea." Bitterness seeped through her words. Not only did Helen Basch not like to be made a fool, she also hated being wrong about anything.

"I was scared!"

Helen scoffed at the idea, her forehead creasing and her lips curling into a snarl. "Oh, whatever. Who isn't?!" She threw up her hands for emphasis and let out a long sigh. "You think I'm wasn't scared too? You think I spent the last two years watching you from afar, and then suddenly I have you and that's no big deal? You think I wasn't fucking terrified that would slip away and I did everything I could to guarantee—_to show_ you how much I wanted it to last a long time?" These sorts of sappy sentiments rarely made it past her lips, let alone to another person's ears. "But no, you made it perfectly clear what you want. And, yeah, you bet I wanted to hurt you as much as you hurt me, unprofessional or not."

"Wait, what?" That was the sound of genuine confusion as Carol attempted to process the barrage of confessions. "Two ye—"

Cutting her off abruptly, Helen shoved the bag into Carol's arms and slammed the car door closed, marching around to the driver's side. She glared over the roof of the Lexus. "I wish it wasn't true but you were special. It's not everyone I feel so immediately connected to." She shook her head. "But please don't let my love ruin your day. God forbid!" The anger was slowly rebuilding itself. "You say you wanted all that shit, but you don't. You don't know what you want 'cause you've spent your entire adult life being used by men who couldn't give a shit about you and I'm not going to stick around until you figure it out. I'm not a man." She yanked open the door and the hinges creaked loudly on the deserted side street.

Carol let out an aggravated groan and pulled on the passenger side door, pulling it so hard it almost bounced back shut. She threw the bag right back where it came from and her moisturizer fell out onto the floormat. "Wait, wait, you love me?"

The other woman rolled her eyes and growled out some sort of sound of indignation before sliding into the driver's seat and slamming the door shut. Carol leaned in. There may have been a very slight look of bemusement on her face. That made the whole thing even worse. "You love me?"

A big sigh escaped as Helen stared at the roof of the car in defeat. "No, I just reacted this way because it's fun for me." Sarcasm dripped like poison from every word as they fell from her lips. She finally looked into Carol's eyes, making sure that she could impress on her the seriousness of it all. "For someone so smart, you're such a stupid woman."

Whatever sort of pleasure Carol had been deriving from the admission thankfully began to fade. "And I'm pretty stupid for trying to make you feel the same," Helen admitted. She nodded towards the bag. "Please, take it. And for fuck's sake, call Beverly. She's worried sick about you." Twisting the key in the ignition caused Carol to jump back. She pushed the door closed softly, her bag of shit in her other hand as she stood on the sidewalk.

* * *

And that had been that.


	7. Episode 7

The shower was wonderful. After such a rip-roaringly bad day at the office, Helen needed to be pummeled by 14 tons of water per second to wash the bad juju away. She'd decided to stop outwardly punishing Beverly Lincoln, which seemed to relieve her husband more than anyone else. But this Tim guy was just being an asshole about everything related to _The Opposite of Us_. It was actually very possible that her brilliant scheme would backfire and take her out with it. Then there were the falling ratings of one of their previously promising sitcoms. Sitcoms! Why did they even bother buying them anymore? She couldn't recall the last time she heard someone in line at Starbucks or sitting around a bar talk about a sitcom. Elliot and the board were breathing down her neck to yank the netowrk out of the hole Merc and Castor dug but without Carol as her number two, it was proving a bit more difficult than anticipated. It wasn't that Jason was incompetent as Head of Programming. He just wasn't as good. His take wasn't as fresh and his determination was lacking. He had no instincts for the job. He was a mini-Merc.

It had been a whole 4 days since getting back from San Diego and life wasn't any brighter. Helen wondered if the secret to the network's success had really been Carol's presence. What a joke that would be, especially on her.

Water pooled around her feet as she stepped onto the bathmat and reached for a towel. Then she saw them. Neatly arranged on her sink was a line of beauty products that did not belong to her. _Snow-Kissed Berry_ started the line. For a moment, Helen feared that she was actually going crazy. She would have sworn she threw all that shit into the bag for Carol. But there all of it was again, mocking her in its cheapness. Pulling her towel tightly around herself and ignoring the dripping of her wet hair, she strode towards her bedroom.

And there Carol was, lounging on the bed pretending to read one of her mindless fashion magazines.

"What the fuck?" It was the only thing Helen could manage to say.

Carol looked up, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. "Oh, hiya, Pubey."

She folded the magazine closed and placed it beside her carefully before swinging her legs off the bed. She reached for her keys on the nightstand, winking. That was when Helen remembered she had never demanded her fucking key back. It had been implied but obviously not explicitly enough. "I was having this super funny chat with Dexter—I think you've met—and I told him how I broke up with my girlfriend and needed some time out of the city and he said the funniest thing. He said, "Oh, that lady that was here with the bag?" And then things suddenly made perfect sense." Her tone was low, a striking difference from the soprano mouse squeak. For the first time, possibly ever, Carol Rance seemed somewhat dangerous. It was bewildering and surprising and sexy as fuck.

"It was nice of you to check my missed calls for me."

Then, also for the first time possibly ever, Helen Basch had the good grace to flush with shame. She chuckled uncomfortably and looked down at the water spots on the carpet. Carol stalked towards her and snatched at the towel, ripping it away from Helen. It was the spark that set off a blazing inferno. Suddenly Carol's face darkened and soured, her gaze was outright hostile. "Now, go outside! Walk down the fucking street with nothing on."

"What—"

"Go!" she screamed, her whole body looking as if it was vibrating at a high frequency, fists balled up and trembling. She may just explode. "See what it feels like!"

"I am so not going to do that. Are you insane?" She bent down to grab the towel but Carol's foot stomped down on it.

Carol let out a derisive laugh that sounded like a volcano erupted somewhere in her chest. A tiny little blonde volcano. "Am-Am I insane? Am _I_ insane?! Asks the woman who did the exact same shit to me and then stalked me to my brother's house in an entirely different city! The only difference is I don't get to go into work and humiliate you in front of all your—your underlings." She pointed a finger at Helen's face threateningly. "You got off easy there. Oh yeah, I would if I could just so you know how fucking awful it is."

"Oh, come on, no one even noticed." Goosebumps broke out over her damp skin and she valiantly resisted the urge to shudder.

"No, no no no!" Squeezing her eyes closed, Carol frantically waved her hands around her ears and if trying to brush away the words. "You don't get to do that! You don't get to tell me I'm overreacting, that I don't have a reason to feel the way I do."

Helen raised her hands in surrender and backed up, glancing sideways at her t-shirt draped over the chair. She grabbed for it and pulled it over her head before Carol could say a word. As she turned, she caught a glimpse of the photo of Julia as a baby beside the bed. All she could think of was the photograph of Carol and her on Carol's night stand instead. Having her standing here, in her bedroom after everything that had happened was all she really needed to face the truth. There was no way she wanted her life to be absent of this annoying, unpredicatble little woman.

However, it was possible Carol had other ideas. She was fuming so hard it was possible smoke would start coming out of her ears any second but Helen had raised two children; she knew how this was played. Approaching gently, she reached out with two hands, cupping Carol's face tentatively.

There was fear reflecting back at her alongside the indignation and loathing. Helen brushed her fingers through the short hair, trying to soothe away the rage. "I'm sorry, Scrunch," she whispered, taking a huge gulp of her pride in the process. (It was _really_ hard to swallow. It tasted unfamiliar and bitter.) "I was—_am_ a huge asshole. I was scared too."

Carol's shoulders sagged and her lips formed a more relaxed pout, trembling slightly as her eyes were darting side to side. Helen wanted to kiss her, but she held back, dropping her hands to hold Carol's instead.

"And I lied also. I said Beverly could have you, that I don't want you," she said as she braved a bashful smile. "That wasn't true."

Carol's lips transformed from a shy smile into a half-hearted scowl as she stomped her feet in place. "Ugh. I wanted to stay mad at you and ruin your life too," she whined in a piercing squeal.

"Oh, sweetie, that is never going to happen." Then she tilted her head. "I may have already done that anyway."

Curiosity piqued, Carol couldn't resist. "Why? Oh no, what did you do?" It was the voice she used when Andy said something stupid.

"I may have made one teensy, tiny _really _terrible decision about Sean and Beverly's show." Her whole face scrunched up into a grimace and she rushed out the next admission. "I made Tim Wittick the showrunner."

"_No_! You didn't!"

"I did."

"Seriously? Wow, you really are an asshole." Carol chuckled. "Serves you right."

Helen had nothing to say to that. It was probably true. She sat down on the edge of the mattress with a sigh of resignation, shaking her head slowly. Carol perched herself next to her, fiddling with the soft material under her fingertips.

"So, what are you going to do?" She actually sounded concerned.

"We."

"No, huh—sorry, what?" There was no look of even remote understanding on her face.

"What are _we_ going to do," Helen corrected, deliberately enunciating the 'we' portion.

"No, no, wh—Ha, no, I don't think so. I don't work at there anymore."

Helen shrugged easily as if it was no big deal. "You can. I sort of need you to come back to your job." She waited for the offer to sink in for a moment. "I know you're not working elsewhere."

Carol cocked her head to the side and pressed her lips together, considering the offer carefully. It didn't seem promising. "I don't know." She dragged out every vowel as she thought about her response. As a result, Helen softly placed her hand on Carol's thigh.

"I am prepared to beg." It was the only thing she had left.

"Y-you? Beg?" The idea seemed completely foreign. Helen Basch begging anybody for anything was like something from an ancient myth. "Beg me?" Three octaves higher than Carol's normal yelp was quite eardrum-piercing. A frown crept across her lips, not quite understanding the concept. It wasn't a foreign language. Okay, maybe it was. Helen had never used that sentence and Carol likely had never heard it so bluntly.

When they first started their relationship, Helen remembered having to give a lot of gentle, coaxing smiles to the awkward and edgy younger woman. They were meant to reassure and to guide because once she had been there too. Of course, she had been a lot younger at the time but all the same, she understood. (When exactly that understanding mutated into paranoid impatience and basically ripped apart their fragile bond, she couldn't quite be sure.) So, she tried it again. Yeah, she could pinpoint the exact moment Carol's resolve softened and she relaxed. "Anything you want, I'll do it."

Now that made Carol's eyes grow wide with wonder. "Anything?"

Helen confirmed it with a solemn nod. "_Any. Thing_."

"Ooh, wow. Okay. That's sure something." She grinned and then flinched. "A raise?"

"No," Helen began and at Carol's perplexed expression, she decided to cut her some slack. "Don't ask me. _Tell me_ what you want. Be that woman that just yelled at me about how crazy I am."

The blonde straightened her shoulders and flicked her hair back as if preparing from some steering committee presentation. "Oh, all right then." A deep breath. "I want a raise. At least 50%."

"Done." Helen was pretty sure she had that power. If she didn't, she was certain she could convince Elliot to get the board to approve it. They all must be aware how integral Carol was to the network.

"And I want you to…" It was clear she was struggling to either express or to come up with any other demands. "Oh, wait, I want time to go hiking with Beverly and hang out and like, be friends with her—no crazy stuff from you. At work or outside work."

Helen pursed her lips in a smile. "Already understood. Go on."

"I want you to spend some time at my place too. I don't want to move in here. Like, ever maybe? But definitely not in the next few months unless…"

"Unless?" There was just the slightest ray of hope in Helen's eyes.

"Unless I don't know! Who knows. I thought this was about what I want?"

"Right, sure. Sorry."

"No taking out anything that happens with this," she declared, gesturing wildly between their bodies. "On me at work. You must be totally professional even if you hate me."

"Note taken. I'll try to get the lawyers to somehow work that into your new contract."

Carol narrowed her eyes at the suggestion. "Are you screwing with me?"

Shaking her head adamantly, Helen baulked. "Of course not. I'm dead serious. Some sort of clause that protects you from crazy boss vendettas. How's that?"

There was a good-natured shrug. "Works for me. And, just so you know, I'm not a processor. Like, I don't process my shit out loud a lot, especially with the people it's about. So, you need to get that. I'm not a talky-talker about relationshippy things. Right, so, don't expect that from me all the time. I just can't. I'm not saying I won't try, but like, don't be all 'Ahhhh' if sometimes I don't."

"You always should." Relationships rarely, if ever, worked without some semblance of proper communication.

"Uh, well, I won't. I know me," she said matter-of-factly. "That's what Beverly's for. I talk to her and she tells me what to do." Carol paused and winced again. "And then I don't usually do it."

Helen couldn't resist the opening. "What did she say about us _exactly_?" It could be the wrong thing to ask but she had to know and no better time than when they're both actually relaxed.

Carol dismissively waved the question off. "Well, you know, just that if our relationship had any chance of lasting I have to be honest and tell you how I feel about things, blah, blah, blah." She rolled her eyes as if the idea was ridiculous.

"Anything else?"

"She also said Pubey was a terrible pet name and I should never use it."

Considering the rather good advice and how much heartache it would have prevented, Helen cocked her head to the side. "Hmm, I think I'm starting to like Beverly a tiny bit more."

"Oh! Yay."

"Maybe you should listen to her once in a while." Except when she did—

"Except that time I did and you got mad at me and then blamed Beverly being in love with me."

"Oh, we're back to that?" Helen shook her head, resisting the urge to sigh and roll her eyes. "I'm sorry. That was a bad reaction. I wasn't thinking. I was just… jealous that you could seemingly talk to her about us with no issues but not talk to me about us. Okay? Can you drop it now?"

Carol snorted. "Talk about it, don't talk about it. Be honest, don't be honest."

This could go south really quickly and not in the way that Helen actually wanted. She pressed her bare thighs together just for good measure. Yep, she really would rather a different sort of going south was happening. "How about you just keep telling me what your demands are?"


	8. Episode 8

[And now it's finally Carol's turn...]

Demands? How about: _Just shut up and make me come so hard I forget my name again_?

That would be a pretty solid demand. The thought zipped through Carol's mind but remained there, fully entrenched in the muck that was her fear and distrust and unfamiliarity at such a possibility. She hadn't really been allowed to speak much before. Men didn't like that so much, at least not the sad sacks she had been saddled with over the years. They liked to call the shots, to make her theirs. Castor of course had been the worst but as always, she had wilfully pushed Beverly's disgust aside and tried to force herself into the belief that it was just passion, that a normal relationship consisted of him telling her to shut up, covering her mouth during sex, refusing to allow eye contact, never showing any intimacy whatsoever.

And then Helen came along and it was the complete opposite of Castor. Like, total _complete_ opposite. _Way_ too much in the other direction. Attention constantly, kindness, intimacy, love? –so much so soon. There was a present-ness, a pushiness in Helen's approach to relationships. She was there, in your face, giving you attention and love and wanting you to be around all the time, to share everything right away. Like living in a lesbian pressure cooker with a tablespoon of insane jealousy. With Castor and Merc and Ed and every other boss-slash-asshole in her repertoire, there had been a vast expanse of distance between them. The air was thin, and she took every long, fresh breath completely alone. It was windy and desolate there. Dry. Cold. Like a Mongolian plateau or something. Somewhere Asian-y. Sure, she had a beautiful landscape to stare into, but she never actually got anywhere. It was the same in every direction and she was left only with the dust for comfort. Fuck, it was a lot like the Mojave really.

Being with Helen was like the Amazon rainforest instead. The tropics. Hot, and wet, and poking her from every side as she tried to make her way through the dense tangle, pouring down on her randomly and so humid she could barely breathe, leaving her lost and suffocating. She never knew what she'd find under every leaf, if it would be a gorgeous flower or a horrible venomous insect.

If the men were the Californian desert, Helen was L.A. under a bad smog warning.

All she wanted was… whatever was in between Mongolia and Brazil. Someplace nice and gentle and with air to breathe, but not too much. And now, technically speaking, she was in a position to demand exactly that and see what happens.

Maybe that was happening. She wouldn't be sure for a while yet. Helen was both horribly predictable and yet completely unpredictable in other ways.

Instead she had the older woman staring at her, waiting for some sort of a request. _Just don't hurt me again. I'm not as strong and smart as you think I am_. That was an idea but it was too vulnerable and she certainly wasn't willing to trust Helen with that yet. _Let me breathe this time around_. Again, that wouldn't be escaping the delicate prison of her lips.

She had no other demands. "I'm done."

"Done?" She could tell Helen was a little bit disappointed that nothing more salacious slid from her mouth. She hated being a disappointment but there was no way she'd start some sort of dirty sexy talk at this point. It took a certain type of person to pull that without bursting out into laughter. Helen probably could, with her voice, the lowness of its timbre, the way she could get that dangerous gleam in her eye that sent all sorts of warning signals and warm tingles down Carol's spine. Yeah, Helen could totally do it.

There was a lot of lying in Carol's life. Like, a lot. It was basically her _whole_ life. But she never would lie to herself about her own voice and its inability to be anything close to sensual. She'd tried, over and over. Most of the time it was about as efficient as flinging a dead rat against a wall. Not so much with the sexiness, and more of a huge flop.

"Okay, maybe not done done. There's one more thing."

"Shoot." Helen sounded airily relaxed and comfortable and it made Carol tingle just slightly with jealousy. She wasn't supposed to be so composed and cocky in this situation. It was meant to be the other way around, right? The person that is doing the demanding is supposed to feel in control and strong and all those things Carol was fairly sure she'd never felt in her entire life. That wasn't right. There was only one thing left after the obviously reluctant apologies to make Helen actually uncomfortable. And granted, Carol just really wanted to hear the words, but more so, she wanted to see legitimate groveling.

"Tell me," she said simply.

There was a shake of brown hair as Helen attempted to understand the command. Her eyes seemed to be searching for some semblance of a hint on Carol's thankfully impassive face. When nothing appeared, brown eyes latched onto hers with a spark of warning. Good. That is exactly what Carol wanted to see because at least that meant she was getting close. A thin smile stretched over her lips as she watched Helen debate with her own mind.

She relented eventually. "Tell you what?"

A blasé shrug was the perfect accessory to this conversation and Carol wore it well. "You know. How you feel." _Since you love talking about it so much_, she added.

Helen looked down at her bare lap, pulling the hem of her t-shirt to cover herself slightly more modestly. She was getting uncomfortable, even a little self-conscious. It was definitely a good sign. "How I feel," Helen repeated, assessing the damage that could do. "Is this an open-ended question, or did you have something specific in mind?" The thing about Helen Basch was that she enjoyed boundaries very much, especially other people's. Limits gave her peace of mind, and an idea where she could push things if ever she needed to go beyond them, a sense of control and expectation. Her own gave her a sense of protection. Carol knew that much at least.

"Oh, I have something in mind." Her voice was taking on that smarmy sort of amusement and she made a note to dial it back. It would never work if Helen knew how much Carol was actually enjoying making her squirm.

That was it. Helen narrowed her eyes, a hint of frustration or anger slicing across her face. She was not enjoying this task and Carol waited patiently, forcing the smile back. There was the sound of a long, heavy sigh and Helen's shoulders visibly sagged. Her eyes darted around for a moment, searching for something, before settling at last on Carol.

"Okay, well, other than the birth of my kids, getting to know you—and I mean_ really _getting to know you: all those silly chats over Chinese take-out and late night talks in bed—was one of the happiest two weeks of my life."

Carol recognized the pang of longing in her chest. Those days had been her happiest ever. Like, _ever_. She'd never had a relationship that she was literally happy for days straight and felt it all being reflected back at her as well.

"I wanted it—you for so long and then you were there, _with me_. It was hard to believe. I felt _so_ lucky. You really have no idea, do you?" At first her question came out slightly insulted but her demeanor softened quickly at Carol's look of warning and she let a slight, embarrassed chuckle slip out. "Of course not. Because a week later my over-exuberance and enthusiasm turned… into—look, I know it scared you. That _I _scared you. That it was too much for you and I get that now, I do. But I'm not afraid of feeling really intense shit and I'm not afraid of showing it. If I want something, I say it. If I'm happy, you'll know it and maybe go overboard. If I'm excited, I show it. If I'm pissed off, then hell yeah, you know that too." She paused, looking down for a moment to her hands. "I got ahead of myself and way ahead of you and it scared you but I just don't get not talking, okay? I don't! I'm sorry, I just don't. You do this thing where you just agree and smile and giggle and stuff all your real feelings so far inside you and that just makes no fucking sense to me, you know? There are times that I don't know _how_ to talk to you when you don't talk. And when people don't talk, they're usually hiding something bad. I was fucking scared too."

Carol knew most of this to be true. She did pretend grimaces were actually smiles and push down her feelings, usually so deep that she could barely remember what they were. They just begin to feel like a big ball of lead (or dread) in her stomach. And this was exceptionally common when she really, really wanted to please someone. She was afraid of talking about real things because L.A. is not real and she's not allowed to be either. It's not full of real people with honest jobs. It's all plastic bodies and strained smiles and overloaded ego and running line after line until conversation becomes nothing more than a bunch of useless noise meant to impress a bunch of other noise-making machines. Not her slice of it anyway. It's stock full of liars and fakes all masquerading around for some weird reason to get something none of them even know. It generally wasn't encouraged to be looking into truth, whatever the fuck that even was. Usually that was pretty ugly if it even existed. Ew.

"I'm sorry, Scrunchie." It looked as if Helen was struggling with the words, like they were too thick and were sticking to the back of her tongue. She looked off to the side briefly and when her brown eyes came back to meet Carol's, there was a glisten to them. It was hard to believe that Helen Basch was actually tearing up a little. "I know it seems completely psycho, everything that happened. And it's no excuse. All I can say is that I'm sorry now."

The whole thing seemed surreal. Never in her life had anyone given her a proper apology, not a heartfelt one at any rate. There had been a lot of empty promises, loads of excuses, and a moderate amount of begging from Merc anyway. In retrospect, it was really pathetic and she was naïve for falling for them all. Maybe she was stupid for falling for this one too. Oh god, Beverly was going to murder her for this!

Carol swallowed nervously and nodded quickly. "Okay, um, I'm sorry too for lying and all that. But that wasn't really what I wanted you to tell me."

There it was. A miracle! A major scientific breakthrough! Carol couldn't quite believe it herself. Helen Basch: speechless. It must be some sort of record. After spilling out a whole bunch of deep, personal feelings, Helen was just shot down—in a way. Part of her was pleased with herself for this accomplishment. Then there was the niggling part that felt a little bit bad about it. She attempted to hide both of these reactions.

"Oh. Right…" She could tell Helen's mind was whirling with possibilities. It was a little unnerving how quiet the room became after a while. There was the sound of breathing of course, and the drip-drip of a faucet that hadn't been properly twisted off in the bathroom. The problem was that Carol wasn't really sure how to proceed from here. Did she give a hint? Did she just let it go? Helen wasn't going to forget, she knew that much. The older woman would likely dwell on it, silently, all night long wondering what the real demand was. Was it totally fair to do that? Nah, probably not but Carol figured maybe it would be a good thing for Helen to be the one in the dark for once, to be the one who didn't know the proper thing to say. Yeah, Helen definitely was squirmy now.

It was so fucking weird having the power.

A puzzled frown cracked her face as Helen kept trying to assess the situation. "Did you mean… physically? 'Cause in that case, my stomach is in knots. Like cramps, maybe it's just indigestion from the Mexican earlier."

"Ew." No, Carol certainly had not meant literal physical feelings.

"My heart is pounding faster than normal. My hands are shaking."

The blonde looked down and reached for Helen's hands, holding them in her own. "No, they're not."

"Well, they feel like they're about to fall off."

"I really don't think—"

"I love you."

Wham! Even though the words were said quietly, they hit Carol head on and quite unexpectedly, and she stopped for a moment, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. She didn't realize at first that her fingers were clenched too tightly around Helen's palms, her short nails digging into soft flesh. "Wha-What?"

Of course she had expected the words; she had wanted to hear them. She just didn't expect it to sound so vulnerable and quiet. Helen was always so sure sounding, her voice unwavering and sturdy, like it had been in San Diego when she initially had hinted at it. And that's it: _vulnerable_. As if someone else on the planet was actually capable of _hurting_ the indestructible Helen Basch. It was obvious people were capable of pissing her off, getting her angry and indignant, and plain getting under her skin. But hurt? Carol didn't know it was actually possible until now, and she hadn't any idea that she, little old perpetual Number Two, had that ability. Power was a funny thing.

Helen pulled her hands away, clasping them tightly together and letting out a spluttering laugh. "I love you. I said it. You've heard it." She let out a long, worn-out sigh. "I've loved you for a while, you idiot."

"How long?"

Helen smirked. "Long enough. But not like a creepy amount of time, like you're probably thinking now. I had to get to know you first," she chuckled a little at the idea. "And, look, relax. I'm not asking you for anything in return. I don't want you to have a heart attack or something about saying anything to me. You wanted my feelings and I just wanted you to know where my head is at."

"Yeah, um, yeah." Carol stumbled over her words much more eloquently than she thought possible considering the complete tangled mess of her thoughts. Her heart was fluttering, quite possibly vibrating even, thumping wildly in her chest. It wasn't fear so much this time though; it was shock. How many years had she spent with Merc and the closest he'd ever come was an off-hand "Well, ya know how it is, baby." As if he wasn't even allowed to say the words. Now she realized he'd never said them because he had never felt them, and she should thank him for never feeding her that lie at least. And then she felt it building up in her throat. First a tightness in her chest, a pressure, a bit of a suffocating sensation in her throat, then a warmth spreading through her face, right up to the corners of her eyes. Oh god, it was just like that time Helen gave her the key.

Except this time she could breathe. Well, that was a nice change. For once. Instead, she blinked back the heat and allowed what could potentially be a smile to creep across her lips. Yeah, this was more like that happiness thing that had been so elusive for so long. Someone loved her. Like, _loved_ her. And told her out loud and did things and was actually like, upset if she wasn't around. She was so used to being the one saying it and never hearing it back. This was an entirely new situation. Yep, it was totally different hearing the words directed at her. Fuzzy wouldn't exactly be the word to describe what she was feeling. There was some semblance of relief, maybe a bit of satisfaction, and definitely excitement. Something else though, something she could feel in her chest quite literally but lacked a name.

"I've never… No one has ever…" she started, very much feeling the same as she had with the fucking key, except obviously without the panicking and crushing sense of doom. And no hives, she noted with delight. No hives! It was a positive step forward.

"I know, no one has ever loved or treated you like an actual person before."

_Ouch_. Helen's words stung, mostly because there was a lot of truth in them and it was something she had only been able to see in retrospect. A shitload of retrospect. Like, Paleolithic retrospect. And now she had a glimpse at the modern world and it looked a lot like Helen Basch, half-naked on her bed, damp hair dripping onto her old t-shirt. She liked the modern world a lot. It was a place she could hang out for sure. After the wince faded from her face, she pushed forward, probably a little more vigorously than necessary and Helen fell back against the pillows.

It still was a wonder how this scary, domineering, top-tier executive of a multimillion dollar network relented so damn easily to her touch. Who was she? Nobody really and Helen just melted almost every time (except when she was really pissed off). It was like having some sort of secret superpower that no one would ever know about (except Beverly probably) and Carol kinda liked it that way. It was her thing. Her and Helen's thing, this weird sort of very private, very intimate power shift.

Yes, Beverly was likely going to push her off a cliff the next time they were to go hiking because to anyone else being right back here with Helen was a terrible idea for both her sanity and her career. But Beverly could jump off her own cliff really because it's not like she was the queen of good life decisions either.

She could feel the twist in her stomach that accompanied the electric tingle up the back of her neck and down to her toes as warm fingers wove themselves through her short hair. It multiplied exponentially as her lips met Helen's, maybe a little too eagerly. Her entire body relaxed into a hazy sort of dream where everything felt so good, and easy, and right. It always felt that way with Helen though, at least when they were like this. Together. It was sort of funny that the thing she thought would be the weirdest, most difficult adjustment was actually incredibly simple. In fact, all that romantic ideation she'd dreamt of, all the relationshippy stuff had been hard. It was still probably going to be hard but this? It was the easiest thing ever. She sucked in a shallow breath as her lips hovered above Helen before proceeding down her jawline, dipping into that soft warm spot just under her earlobe, and down a smooth neck. She could feel the pulse of blood if she kissed just the right spot. Helen's sharp intake of breath sounded deafening in the quiet of her bedroom.

As her thigh settled between two bare ones, she heard the low whine and pulled back to see the hint of a pout on Helen's face.

"This doesn't seem very fair, does it?" Helen asked pointedly, nodding down at Carol's entirely clothed body.

She thought about being cheeky, playing hard to get, continuing to draw out the game of demands from before. However, far more urgent was the need to feel skin against her own. "You're right. Let's even it out." Carol sat up, wrestling with her slacks as her fingers began to tremble slightly in anticipation. When she turned back to Helen, finally rid of her offending pants and evening the score, Helen was bare naked.

"Still not fair," she smirked, pointing at Carol's top. Her voice was the specific gravelly low sound that made Carol's toes curl and her pulse hammer rapidly with want. "Let me help you out."

Carol was pliant and more than willing to just allow Helen to slowly peel away every piece of remaining clothing. She wasn't sure she'd ever be able to get used to this sort of thing. It's not as if she'd never done it before, but after 10 years of rushed, hushed, office sex with men, slow and sensual wasn't something she experienced all that often. Every puff of breath, every whisper of a touch, every little movement was felt with such intensity that Carol was wondering if she may end up spontaneously combusting from it all. Every inch of skin Helen ran her hands, lips or tongue against made her pant, every so often allowing a moan to escape.

"Don't hold back, baby," came a groan against her collarbone as Helen planted a kiss in the divot in the centre. _Right, I'm allowed to make noise_. No one was there to tell her to be quiet or cover her mouth with a hand (She could still see Beverly's complete revulsion when Carol had told her about Castor's tendencies). Carol had to constantly remind herself about that fact, especially that Helen seemed to get no greater satisfaction than making Carol hoarse by the end of it all. And the laughter. Could that actually be the best part? Carol had no idea that it was possible to laugh and have actual fun so often in bed. If things tickled, she laughed. If they felt good, she hummed. And if they felt fucking amazing, she screamed. Really eardrum-shatteringly loudly. And damn, that made it all that much better.

As Helen crawled up her body, Carol shifted back and lay back against the pillows, grabbing at toned arms and looping her fingers through the soft brown hair. She would be lying if she had ever pretended that she hadn't been heartbroken 3 weeks ago, or that she didn't miss this togetherness (It wasn't just the amazing sex. She _missed_ everything). It was like a drug coursing hard through her veins and the weeks apart, flirting and fucking around in San Diego hadn't really assuaged the withdrawal she'd felt at her loss. Judging by Helen's eagerness, she'd felt the same. Her hips rolled against a thigh and a strangled sort of sound bubbled up from her throat at the contact. There was the tickle of a smile against her neck as Helen continued her journey, snaking a hand down between her legs.

Yeah, she probably hadn't even needed to consider voicing that demand from before because she was pretty sure that at this rate, she would forget her own name in about 10 minutes.


	9. Episode 9

There was a certain drawback of Type A's like Helen. (Well, okay, there were way more than one but only one that bothered Carol at the moment.) She seemed to be unable to just lounge in bed in the morning and always had to be up and wide awake, almost immediately. Carol, on the other hand, wasn't exactly lethargic but did appreciate a gentler rise. Most of the time she woke to an empty bed and the faint smell of coffee brewing elsewhere. Carol rolled over as the light sliced through the curtains and groggily groped around for something to wear. Finding the floor absent of discarded clothes from the night before, she stumbled to Helen's dresser and rummaged around for a t-shirt and pair of shorts, pulling them in with some mild annoyance. But she breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of Helen's detergent and couldn't quite hold back the tiny quirk of her lips as the familiar smell draped over her.

Helen was already bustling around her kitchen with purpose and haste as the coffee bubbled in the carafe. There was a selection of fresh fruit on a plate and a few yogurt cups. She jumped at Carol's presence and laughed to cover it up. "Hey. I was going to bring you some breakfast in bed, sleepyhead."

"Can you blame me?" Carol grinned, her mind flashing through the hours upon hours last night where she was definitely not sleeping. Her cheeks began a slow blush and her pulse quickened slightly.

This time when Helen approached her, she didn't stiffen or giggle at the morning kiss. It was a gentle lingering feeling and Carol felt herself leaning into it.

"Morning, Scrunch." She gave Carol a deliberate look over. "I see you found something to wear." With a wink she added, "Suits you."

The younger woman chuckled shyly and dodged Helen's stare. "Well, obviously…" She motioned towards Helen, who was clad in nothing more than a loose-fitting, long navy tank top. She was so fucking hot. It still had the ability to fluster her, which also flustered her even more that a woman could do that to her. The words didn't need to be adequately articulated as Helen clearly looked flattered herself. Changing the subject from their mutual appreciation, Helen grabbed a mug and began pouring as she hurriedly rattled off her chores for the day. She was used to this routine by now. "So, I have to head into the office in about half an hour. Meeting with Cassandra from Scheduling about Sean &amp; Beverly's thing-what a mess. Then what's her name from Drama Dev has some casting issues she needs to go over with me and Andy. Bobby from Distrib has a problem with one of the south east affiliates not wanting to air The Box. And Myra has some pick-up ideas she wants to run by me and, shit, what's his name?"

Carol shrugged. She really didn't know and it wouldn't be able to even hazard a guess.

Helen shook it off and sighed. "Anyway, the new guy, soon-to-be unemployed guy. And keep your phone on because Elliot will likely be calling to set up a meeting with you," she said glancing at the clock on the over, "Soon."

"Elliot Salad?" There was that 3rd octave she could reach.

Handing a cup of coffee with sugar and cream to Carol, Helen nodded with a faux wince. "I _may_ have already spoken to him about you being needed." She shrugged again, taking a long gulp of her own coffee. "He'll want you to drop by."

"Already?" The idea was a little bewildering and she couldn't help wondering if maybe they really were suffering without her. The idea made her spine a little straighter and her lips curled up into a smug smile.

"Of course already. Just remember: be demanding. You'll get it." Helen sidled over to her with a certain sway in her hips. "And maybe after that, we can do lunch, if you'd like." Her hands slid easily over Carol's hips, sending sparks to her toes at the contact and the low timbre left no doubt what she really meant.

"Mmm-hmm. Yeah, I think I can do that," Carol whispered hoarsely as her eyes closed of their own accord when Helen's lips moved over her pulse point. "Think you can do breakfast too?"

Helen grinned as Carol demandingly pulled her face up to crush their lips together. The sound made Carol's knees feel weak and her chest did that weird thing that felt her heart had butterflies, not her stomach, like she was having a 100 really tiny heart attacks in a row—but they felt _good_. Her fingers travelled down, impatiently flicking away the hem of Helen's tank top and dipping lower. Helen hissed in a sharp breath between her teeth and her arms went out to steady her own body against the counter.

"You may be a tad late to that first meeting," Carol muttered against the shell of the older woman's ear and twisted her wrist just so. It elicited the desired gasp and she felt a hand reflexively squeeze her hip tightly in response. Helen's forehead fell against her shoulder and she let out a shuddering breath. Everything about this moment seemed to be perfect.

"Ah, who needs yogurt anyway?"

It really was all about finding the right boss.

.

.

-END


	10. Epilogue

The clock on the DVR glared menacingly at her from across the living room. 7:44 turned into 7:45. The mere passage of one minute of time attempted to threaten her bliss with its repeated warning of potential tardiness, especially with the freeway packed with traffic by now. She'd certainly be late for work at this rate but as Carol lazily kissed her way up her sweat-dampened stomach, she really couldn't care less. (How very unlike her, if she was honest.) With a hum of utter contentment, she sank further into the sofa cushions and waited. She could taste herself on Carol's lips when the other woman eventually settled down beside her and her body quivered with anticipation again. Make-up sex was always 400 times better than any other kind and they'd barely stopped making up since last night.

"C'mere," she groaned lazily, pulling Carol into her arms as they lay naked in the early morning sunshine. "Lunch is _definitely_ on me."

Carol let out a breathy laugh and curled in just slightly tighter. "I think I can for sure work that into my schedule."

7:48. _Fuck_. Oh well, two more minutes wasn't going to really make much of a difference. Probably. The silence was comfortable as her breathing began to slowly even out. The warmth of the body squished up next to hers was soothing and the way Carol was gentling tracing circles along her forearm was absolute bliss. All she could smell was sex, a whiff of pomegranate shampoo, and cheap snowberry moisturizer. Glancing down, she saw Carol in a similarly sated and lethargic state, breathing deep and evenly. Goosebumps rose along the younger woman's shoulders in the crispness of the AC. Sure, sex was amazing but there was something about this, the quiet peace of the aftermath, that Helen appreciated even more and it was a rare opportunity to see Carol stripped of her usual neurotic, overwrought nicety.

"So," she started softly, shifting a bit on the sofa. "I guess it'd be too soon to ask you to marry me, huh, Scrunchie?"

Carol's eyes went wide in fear and her body felt suddenly like a plywood board. She was way too easy to rile up. Helen thought she could literally see hives breaking out across her neck and shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. And then, after she figured she'd teased her enough, Helen laughed at the reaction until Carol's body relaxed again with a nervous giggle.

"Oh my god, you're the worst," Carol grumbled but a reluctant smile belayed her true feelings.

Helen grinned and cocked her head to the side. "I am what I am." Thankfully, she could feel Carol's heartbeat slowing against her skin. "And what I am is in need of a date, by the way."

"Oh?"

It was cute how obvious Carol was when she was pretending not to be expecting something. Helen couldn't help herself from stroking a hand through the short hair in front of her. Another whiff of pomegranate drifted up to her nose. "Yeah, how do you feel about New York?"

Carol propped herself up to look at Helen directly, eyes twinkling and a smile pulling at her lips. "You want to take me to the upfronts?" She appeared to be almost tearing up.

"Yes," she laughed. "And not just in a business capacity, just so we're clear. I want to walk the carpet with you, sit beside you, schmooze the ad execs, drag my ass through the godawful after-parties with you next to me and then sneak out early to crash at in the same hotel suite in the same bed. And, obviously, I need you in the meetings. I'm letting you know what I expect now. So be honest, is that something you can do?" She was trying this honest communication thing with baby-steps and could only hope Carol would follow suit.

There was a hard swallow from the younger woman and she seemed to hesitate for a moment. It could be seen as a rather big step since absolutely everyone in the industry would be there. But on the other hand, no one was really paying that much attention to anyone but the big spenders and the talent. And Helen knew none of Carol's other bosses had ever taken her, not as a date anyway. Of course she'd run into Carol numerous times over the years at upfronts—complete with their awkward hugs. She couldn't wait to show off to her colleagues. (Carol's reputation obviously had preceded her in many regards but Helen couldn't imagine being more excited to introduce anyone else as her partner.) It had been too many years of watching from the sidelines at all the fake smiles, stilted embraces, and unhappy marriages on display, much like she participated in once. Now she had something _real_ and she wanted to show the entire world how beautiful she was. And, yeah, there was a little bit of rubbing her good fortune in everyone else's faces, especially fucking Merc Lapidus. He had his chance.

She hadn't known she was actually trembling until Carol reached out and took her hand, interlocking their fingers and giving a brief squeeze. It was oddly soothing considering Carol was normally the one on the precipice of a breakdown. "I think I can handle that."

"You sure? Be honest."

"When am I not?" she asked, her voice going back up in pitch.

Helen scoffed loudly. "Stop. Seriously, tell me." She wanted it more than anything in a long time, but was wrapping her head around the possibility of it not happening. Carol's reticence to give a solid answer certainly wasn't encouraging.

Blue eyes glanced down at their joined hands and Helen cursed her body's betrayal of how much she really fucking wanted this. A glint of concern seemed to pass over Carol's face and she smiled, not quite in pity but more in recognition. "Yeah, totally. I can do it. I've never been anyone's date to one of these big things before." Again, her voice caught a little in her throat, thick with some emotion Helen wasn't entirely capable of placing.

"Well, hopefully we'll continue this pattern of giving you firsts." It hadn't meant to be dirty but she watched the flush of Carol's cheeks all the same, no doubt recalling some of the more pleasurable firsts they'd experienced.

Recovering after a moment, Carol sighed, "I'd like that."

"Good. And thank you," Helen muttered, grateful that she didn't have to beg or face the embarrassment of rejection. She could feel her nerves thrumming excitedly about New York already. She'd given enough presentations and participated in enough upfronts to know the drill but it was the idea of holding Carol's hand walking into the venue that sent her heart into a frenzied beat. The network prexy and the director of programming: power couple, a force to be reckoned with. She shivered, not entirely from the cold.

The clock mocked her with the green glow of 8:00 suddenly. "Anyway, as much as I'd love to lie here all day discussing all the firsts I've yet to give you, I am going to be officially and disastrously late for work."

Carol rolled off and shooed her away. "Go, go then. Big day." Grabbing the throw from behind them, Helen draped herself in a makeshift toga, tossing Carol the t-shirt from earlier.

Leaning down, she placed a soft kiss on her lips, reveling in the natural, comfortable feeling of the action. "See you soon, honey."

"Soon," Carol agreed with surprisingly solemnness, and it sounded like a much more resolute promise then merely a confirmation of a lunch date.

That was better than never. Yes, Helen Basch could do 'soon'. She could do soon for the rest of her life.


End file.
